First Kill
by Thornvale
Summary: Some short drabbles featuring Lor'themar Theron.
1. Chapter 1

World of Warcraft and its characters are property of Blizzard Entertainment. This story is non-profit.

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 **First Kill**

 _You look so handsome,_ his mother had said after pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Her blue eyes had become moist with tears after seeing her son in his Farstrider uniform for the first time, and she had positively glowed with pride. _You look just like your father!_

The young ranger stood with his hands open and shock still, his features oddly slack. Blood smeared his palms and dripped from the splattered edge of his now sheathed sword with a horribly rhythmic noise. _Splick, splick,_ was all that could be heard for a matter of moments, and as the troll shook in the final throes of death at his feet, time seemed to stretch on and on. All his romantic notions of what being a Farstrider was were shattered in a matter of seconds. It was not simply marching and patrolling and looking fearsome, it was … _this._

Would his mother have kissed his forehead, now? Would she have shed tears of pride?

Lor'themar swallowed and covered his mouth with his forearm, just barely holding down the contents of his stomach. The troll had finally stopped moving, though the ranger's eyes were not open to witness it. With a number of deep and calculated breaths, he began to calm himself, the sound of his mother's voice now replaced with that of his own conscience fiercely debating with him. _The trolls kill elves, too. The creature deserved it. Life is not fun and games! For the good of Quel'Thalas… blood must be spilt._

His blood ran cold. The Amani must have held the same level of contempt for the High Elves that Lor'themar and the rest of his generation had been taught to feel for the trolls. However, what he felt was not important, for it was his duty to protect the sovereign country. Protect it he would, no matter what. Always.

Stepping over the corpse of the forest troll, Lor'themar placed his hands upon his hips and regarded the two adolescent elves who had been tied back to back inside the troll's hut. They stared up at him with wide, fearful eyes, their faces speckled red with blood. One of them, with all the uncouthness of youth, simply said:

"You look like you're gonna puke, mister."

With one of the children slung over his shoulder and the other holding tightly onto his arm as she followed him, Lor'themar quickly found his way out of the village and was relieved to be rejoined with his fellow rangers. Within the wilderness they recovered, sharing scraps of food and tales of their victory. Lor'themar only watched and listened.

There would come a day he would find glory and good fun in his chasing down the enemies of his people, but the day he first cut a person down was far from being close to it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Life Blood**

It had started with thunder and blood.

An island, black and haunted by the souls of shackled slaves, by the god-king who had been granted life again. There was rain, _so much rain,_ a smell of rotting fish, there were swords clashing amidst screeches of dying trolls, elves, dragonhawks. A man rode through it all as if it were a meadow in his home land. There was a smile on his face, and there was a thirst for troll blood.

 _A great discovery._ Blood, blood, so much of it, a crimson liquid imbued with a mighty power! It gave life to that which was not blessed with it. It gave hope to those who had long lost it. Guardian constructs were powered into life and they _obeyed_ , they would fill gaps in the army of which few soldiers remained. It was meant to be the beginning of a rebirth. It was meant to be their chance to rise again.

Word swept through the ranks of the Horde. There was one, he who oversaw every inner working of it all, who desired this liquid life for himself. It was thus deemed too _dangerous_ to be in the hands of the greedy and unstable Blood Elves. Too _good_ for such weak filth. Their Regent Lord would not relent. The land of eternal spring would prosper _by any means necessary._

He was taken. Broken.

He said not a word, not a whisper. The orcs would never know how to use the precious life blood.

It all seemed so long ago. The memories were no longer his, or so they felt. He had _always_ been here with his gnarled, clawed hands chained to the walls, with his bent wings snapped and hanging uselessly. He had always felt this … terrible, nauseating … insatiable _hunger._ The man – no, the _creature_ \- writhed and moaned, his skull pounding with each and every movement. The memories were forgotten, everything ceased to exist but this sheer craving for a sustenance that would surely break him from this prison in the end.

There came a day of light. The creature closed his good eye to block out the searing light of the sun. He hissed, growled, whined for more of those delicious green crystals, the energy that was so familiar and so new and so devastating. The orcs were _parading_ him in front of a people who reeked of the crystals … the crystals! The shackles were finally broken, and for a matter of seconds he was _free_ , so _free -_

There was a face. It was a face he knew. Then, there came the thud of an arrow. The creature crumpled to the red dust below, the slit of his eye watching as crimson trickled from underneath him. Precious life blood. Perhaps … once the pain was gone and darkness swelled, he would remember what the colour meant, why the fel-people mourned.

He would remember all he had given to see this day come.


End file.
